


Affirmation.

by TheOtherEyeIsNotResponsive



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: AU where Whirl is not Rung's patient, AU: Rung is not Whirl's therapist, Canon-Typical Background Violence, First Meeting, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, References to Severed Limbs, Sick Fic: trouble breathing & high fever, Swearing, Whirl POV, fever induced bad flirting, fever induced possible imaginary date
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:06:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27872006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOtherEyeIsNotResponsive/pseuds/TheOtherEyeIsNotResponsive
Summary: Angry, bleeding, and tired of this ship - Whirl finds refuge in the Medibay, and forms an unlikely bond with a sickly Rung.
Relationships: Rung & Whirl, Rung/Whirl (Transformers)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 50





	Affirmation.

**Author's Note:**

> Minor characters: First Aid, Ratchet  
> 
> 
> A huge shoutout to [@moneychangeseverything](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moneychangeseverything) for beta-reading. Thank you so much!

Here he was, all excited to finally have some traditional weapons-up action. Kicking aft and taking names! Up against some monster that came aboard or some something - and then some spark-shaken numbnut has the gall to shoot his fragging arm off.

What a fragging turn-off. Frag that slag all the way down to the pits. 

He drops his weapon and leaves the room. Stalks down the adjoining hallway just barely deciding _not_ to rip off the offending mech's helm, and instead joins the steady stream of other mechs shuffling into the Medibay.

Primus-driven mechs and their blasted stupid desire to shoot at anything and everything. Do friend or foe tags just not register through their thick fragging processors, is that how that works? 'Scared' my aft. Take that mismanaged slag you got for a gyroscope to the range and fragging practice! Frag! This arm was better at holding a gun steady than theirs combined could hold their spi-

“Whirl?” First Aid calls, giving him the privilege of a quick scan before Whirl can even step out of line towards him. “You’re not dying, sit over there.”

“Hey wait no, ‘Aid can I actually get this looked at?” he calls out to the doc, who’s already scanning the next mech over. 

First Aid turns. Gives him a _look._

Whirl’s optic constricts to a pinpoint and he releases pressure on one of the major lines he’d been trying to clamp down on. A jet of energon splurges out. He clamps down again.

That lightbulb First Aid calls a visor emulates an eye roll and he walks back, grabbing a handful of clamps from a hip pouch. “Ok Whirl, fine,” he enunciates while clamping the bundle of ripped energon lines, “if you want me to take a look at you _later_ , you better-” a scream cuts him short, “oh _slag.”_

He twists and locks onto the sound. A patient across the room thrashes on their slab, machines around it blaring. “Just watch Rug - orange mech - he’s not contagious. Got it?” He snaps before bolting off. 

Welp, obviously he wasn’t fishing for an answer. Still it’s better than getting called fit for duty and thrown back into the fray.

Usually he’d be all for shooting something up - anything really, the more holes the better - but the taste for it’s just not there tonight. Better stay in First Aid’s good graces, and maybe even under the radar, if he's got any chance of walking out of here with both arms attached. And that means finding this charge of his…

It’s near impossible to find anything in the crowded Medibay. He gets jostled around in a dazed energon-loss kind of way, until he realizes that oh yeah wait, _I did just lose a lot of energon._

Mech, if they call for armed backup again you won’t see this buckethead bursting a bolt trying to get there first. The bridge was _not_ comfortable to sit and stew in when all he did last time was follow orders. Brig and stupid choices, he gets. That's understandable. That's whatever, yeah, okay. But you shouldn't be getting all surprised to find an order you gave out to a mech, was actually carried out by that mech! Whatever. Arm or no arm, he doesn’t need that slag this time around.

But eh, you know what? Whatever. He’s not going to let this ruin his day. He can watch one orange bot for a bit until another one of these Lost Light Crises™ is blown to slag, his arm can be looked at - preferably reattached - whatever the medic decides he deserves this time around. And _then_ there’ll be plenty of time to chill out and drink himself down a drain. What's the saying? Something something, the more positive thoughts the higher the likelihood of potential positive results. Damn, got this psych stuff down to a T. 

And slag, there he is. Tucked away nicely in a corner but still, damn there he actually is. He exists beyond a medic's desire to get away from the big bad annoying Whirl. 

It takes a fair bit of maneuvering to get to him, but when he does, well, the orange mech doesn’t look too good. Thin enough mech, condensation practically drenching his frame, vents rasping with illness. 

Non-contagious. _Right._

“You’ve really been through the wringer haven’t you…” The mech, Rug, doesn’t show any indication of having heard him. His wheezing vents keep an unsteady beat. Intake auxiliary vents probably pushing at max capacity too, for a frame that size.

Whirl pulls up a chair, drops his dead arm on the ground, and settles in for hopefully _the_ most sensationally uneventful long haul of his career. Or at least, acceptably boring. Anything other than being out there. 

He tries picking at the flaking bits of paint on his thigh. Tries probing the arm- his arm on the floor, to see if he can feel it (he can't, it's detached). He tries ignoring the heat radiating off the mech in waves of laboured vents, and finally, almost gives in to the thought of pulling out a datapad.

But he doesn’t. He’s supposed to be _watching_ Rug, not goofing off with a fantastical thriller - which is really starting to (finally) kick into gear - but that’s not what he should be thinking about right now. Ok, so maybe not _this_ boring.

“Right Rug? ‘Not supposed to be goofing off. I’m just supposed to be here for a bit looking out for you, before whatever’s going on out there decides to shake things up in here.” Something in his tanks churns at the glyphs. What in the pits is he saying this slag for? The mech can’t even hear him. Dr. Skimmer’s gunna have a field day when he hears about this one. “Ugh it’s all just a bunch of whatever anyway. Whatever,” he grumbles, looking away.

“What kind of a name is _Rug_ anyway. Like some earth thing, jeez.”

“Rung,” comes a quiet voice.

“What?”

Rug blinks slowly, glassy optics lulling to the side as he struggles to look up at Whirl. “My name, it’s Rung.”

“Oh.”

Rung turns his helm further, squinting up at Whirl. “Are you the new nurse? You’re _gorgeous._ ”

Whirl barks a laugh, “Fuck off!” 

The sincerity of the orange mech’s expression furrows into confusion. 

“Nah mech, I’m just...” he backpedals, taking a look around the busy Medibay. No one’s paying attention to this. “I’m just helping out here.” Something snaps. There’s no way, there’s no way- “But don’t you think for a _klik_ lying to me will make you feel any better.”

Rung just blinks up at him. "Nurse? Men-mentioned-" he cuts off, frowning. Licks his cracked lips. "-Said." Damn, somebody get this mech some oil on those underutilized mouth mechanisms. "My timeline of recovery. Just need to... ride it out. Sorry." He finishes, field fluttering with shades of shame.

He regards Rung and his response for a moment, and yep he regrets what he said now. Why did Dr. Skimmer say he does this? The snapping at nice things. Eh, he’ll make it up to the mech. Doubt he’ll remember this after he’s better anyway. And even if he does? No sane mech would want to announce the big bad Whirl was watching out for them, that they’d let him do that on purpose. Ok. Right. Empathize. You did something wrong, what should you do?

“Ehh sorry Rung, I shouldn’t have said that. I know you’re going through a rough patch.”

Rung smiles, an arm twitching as it attempts to raise off the slab. 

> [ ALERT: CONDITION RED ACTIVATED. ALL COMBAT CAPABLE MECHS PLEASE REPORT TO DECK FIVE FOR ASSIGNMENT. ALERT: CONDITION RED - ]

Rung tilts his helm to the side as though he's listening in too. "A buzz, in the air. But can't, can't connect." His face scrunches up with concentration. "Is everything alright?" He enunciates carefully, a small portion of pride highlighting his features at the success.

"I'm tuned into it mech - it's nothing to worry about." He maneuvers the privacy curtain around them.

Rung inspects his new surroundings with glazed opticed interest. “It’s - so long since I’ve been - a ballroom.” He turns to Whirl, “I thought they were, they were all burned down?” 

Should he lie to the mech? What would be the responsible thing to do? He doesn’t owe anyone anything, but this mech… Eh he could use a few small comforts. “Well Rung, they kept one up and running just for you.”

His optics widen. “Just for me?”

“Yes for you and your pretty blue optics. Now why don’t you get out there and dance your little pedes off.”

Rung gives him a determined little nod, and seems to settle down to stare up at the ceiling.

It’s only a hot minute before he’s back again, twisting his helm to look up at Whirl.

“Back already? How was it?”

“I um… who did you say, your name was again?” 

Whirl chuckles, ohh mech you’re really out of it aren’t you. “It’s Whirl.”

“Oh, Whirl, what a lovely… name,” he struggles out, vents rattling. They catch, and Rung spirals into a coughing fit.

That _has_ to hurt. And yet he has that look to him... _Dead End_. That's what his expression reminds Whirl of. That 'feeling so bad you circle back to feeling good again' kind of look. Frag, shouldn't the docs be giving him some kind of viral code-blockers? Or, or something to deal with the heat? The mech seems just about forgotten here.

Whirl looks away. Goes back to fiddling with the paint chipping on his thigh. 

Rung’s cough settles, and his vents return to their normal rattling rhythm. 

Whirl looks back at him, unsure. Rung's staring up at the ceiling again- a far off, vacant stare. Frame absolutely shimmering under a fresh wave of condensation. Should he? 

“Now come on, don’t leave a mech hanging, how was it out there?” He asks, prodding Rung’s arm with the rounded edge of a claw. The paint sizzles under the heat. Primus.

Rung's helm slowly slumps to the side, optics struggling to focus on Whirl. “Oh,” he smiles, “there you are…" He stares, optics starting to unfocus again. "Oh, the dance..." he drifts out, "oh Whirl I can't go out there. Embarrassment. Too much. Dance and I haven't, haven't mingled, in centuries. I can't embarrass myself, in front of all - these officials. Not again."

“Rung don’t worry about a thing, I’m sure you’re a fine enough dancer, and if not I can be your tit mounted backup. Go out and give it another shot, yeah?”

"I, I could try," he murmurs, sounding pretty defeated. "Or," he pips, an idea visibly getting the gears grinding behind those big eyebrows of his, flushed cheeks turning pinker, "or, if one happens to be available, I could, a partner… you?"

“You know what? Sure mech. You can dance with me. How do you want to do this,” he offers a claw to Rung’s closest servo, and mentally kicks himself as the smaller (much smaller) orange digits struggle to lift off the slab to reach it. He brings himself even closer, slowly slipping a claw tip under Rung’s open palm. They gently close in around him, accompanied by the slow sizzle of paint vaporizing. There. Intertwined. 

“Just like this, this is nice.”

They stay there for a couple songs, drifting through the Medibay’s cacophony, the ship's groans, and the distant rattle of gunfire. With Rung pretty much attached to him it’s easy enough to pretend they’re in a better place. 

It'd be great if they were _actually_ in a better place. Though isn't that the way most things go? Always hoping for something better, for something less dangerous, more accepting, easier. At least there's hope this time. He feels… hopeful. Rung deserves it. 

"I feel like this room was made for us.”

Whirl looks around their ‘room’ within the privacy curtain, at his disembodied arm on the ground, at Rung’s blatant fever. “Damn right it is.” 

Rung giggles, the sound wheezing into a short weak cough.

“You’re way prettier than me,” Whirl whispers. Ah slag he shouldn’t have said that. He searches for the insult inevitably bound to appear in the sick mech’s optics.

He finds none. Instead, only wide eyed wonder. Glassy optics somehow even more so. 

“Really?”

Whirl lurches back. “Really.”

“Oh Whirl, you’re so kind.” His face scrunches up in concentration, servo jittering around Whirl’s claw- the motion vaguely similar to a caress. 

Whirl stares at their connection. At the softness of it all. How can one tiny little guy be so kind? They just met today, but he must have heard the tales of Whirl the Ex-Wrecker, villain of Cybertron, starter of the war itself and uninvincible bastard. Does he not care about that? Does he not _know_? Does it even matter? Where are all these questions even coming from?

A long raggedy vent is released and the caressing motion stops. Their optics meet. 

His are so blue and bare and open and beautiful. Since when did optics get so nice to look at?

“All this dancing has me drained. I think I- I think I'll offline the optics for a moment. Just a moment. Whirl," he smiles softly. "Thank you," he starts, glyphs drifting out and optics shuddering closed, "for keeping me company, for the lively evening..." the glyphs barely make it out before the mech falls asleep. Heavy vents fade out into a snuffling snore, and Whirl can only stare. That's one hell of a way to make an exit, but, you know what? At least he seems content. Frame more relaxed. Whirl hopes his recharge is restful, the little guy deserves it. Whirl feels he deserves a lot of things.

How’d he get so wrapped up in this? Must be the energon loss - there’s no other explanation. 

But what a nice thing to be wrapped up in. He wouldn't mind sticking around for a little while. Maybe even visit again and see how his recovery is going. Rung would probably like that. 

The privacy curtain is ripped away, and some kind of trolley floats through, followed by Ratchet. They lock optics, and yup there it is. Surprise, hardening into righteous fury.

“Whirl what the fuck!” And look there they are, there’s those pointing digits. “What are you doing here, haven’t you heard the calls for help-"

“First Aid said-”

“I don’t give a _shit_ what First Aid said. Mechs are dying out there and here you are _hiding!_ You can obviously walk and shoot so get the fuck out and help-!" He continues to roar, spittle flying impressively far. 

Whirl takes a vent, optic whirring as it focuses and refocuses on the utter slag he's being called. Coward? Weak? He didn't go through all this wartime slag to be called weak. Didn't even scream when this arm was shot off. He'll show Ratchet weak. Pits he's killed more mechs than this fragger managed to fix up and he dares -

A tiny pressure - no - it's Rung giving his claw a squeeze. He's still snuffling, expression unchanged. Still sound asleep.

Whirl settles his field and pumps some reassurance into it. Little guy needs the rest. 

But Ratchet's still busting a vocaliser yelling, and that's gotta stop. He turns back to Ratchet on the brink of pulling out the 'Hatchet.' 

"Fine." 

He can feel the medic's attention shift down to Whirl's attempt at untangling himself from Rung's unexpectedly strong grasp. Like some kind of digit-trap. But really, who would voluntarily want to let go of that little guy anyway.

"What-"

Whirl holds up a relinquished claw, optic narrowed. Nope, had enough of medics today. Without breaking optic contact, he scoops up his severed arm and retreats backwards through the privacy curtain.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Hope it was as enjoyable for you to read, as it was for me to write!
> 
> Have thoughts? Opinions? Comments, or concerns? Critiques? Please, type away - let that knowledge be known! Even emojis are hella helpful 💪  
> On that line of thought, please let me know if you think anything else should be tagged, thanks!
> 
> \-------
> 
> Dr. Skimmer, and Rung's snuffles are in tribute to these two amazing works: 
> 
> [ Stars Turning High by Interrobam ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4720274/chapters/10784435)
> 
> [ Shoots and Ladders by MoyaKite ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3449666/chapters/7565954)


End file.
